Existence is very bleak at 3am when you’re curled on the bathroom floor, exhausted and panting from the latest bout of vomit that has just exited your body. And I don’t just mean because of the obvious pain and suffering you have just gone through, and that you know you will go through again and again and again before the night is over, but the existential crisis that is brought on by the cold and the silence and feeling of absolute meaninglessness that descends on you during any dark night of the soul, no matter what the cause.

With my face pressed hard against a dirty pink rug, staring at a wall splattered with vomit, the inarticulate whine that is involuntarily leaking out of my throat seems like nothing more than the pathetic pleading of some dumb animal begging for release. What would I give for this moment to be over? A month of my life? A year? A week of your life? As a child who was often sick with misery at the prospect of another crushing day, I would mentally go though everything I expected to happen in the next 24 hours, and somehow that would make the pain more manageable; I had already lived through the worst, it was only a matter of pushing through those surprises in-between. But as an adult you have the unfortunate tendency to see beyond your immediate desolation to the weeks and months and years beyond. No mental exercise can prepare you for that.

At 5am I started to worry that the house would catch fire, or the zombies would choose this moment to attack. What would I do? I was in no condition to run or fight. I could picture myself as a dark silhouette against the fiery sun of my imploding home, on my knees vomiting and craping my pants. I would be a cautionary tale, or more likely the punch line to a joke. And what do sick people do in real crises? How do cancer patients in Iraq escape when their hospital explodes? What happens to soldiers with missing limbs and pierced brain pans when the cry goes up to evacuate? What if this is my life, forever and ever, a monstrosity who can only expel, but never take comfort or warmth or nourishment?

I tend to be dramatic when I have the flu.

It’s Thanksgiving and I’m full of spite against my friends who think they have so much to be thankful for. I want more mean spirited rants against selfish drivers and stupid customers. It’s like I don’t even know these people. So to balance out all that goodness and light, here is a list of things I’m not thankful for.

1. Ugly babies
2.  Neapolitan ice cream with all the chocolate eaten out
3. My selfish boyfriend who won’t buy me a queen size bed
4. Daylight savings
5. Sixty thousand in student loan bills
6. FoxNews and anyone who watches it
7. Puns
8. Sweaters that seem cute but are in reality itchy betrayers
9. People who are smarter than me
10. The picture on the box of Tofurky that promises so much more than it can deliver
11. Societies inability to produce a comfortable bra
12. People who prance around in front of me with their adorable dogs that I will never have (see #3)
13. No matter how much I fantasize, I’ll never be a sexy ninja
14. People who don’t list me on their list of things they are thankful for
15. Michael Bay
16. That Boo Berry comes but once a year
17. Buffy and Firefly are never coming back
18. My inability to fly
19. Christian Bale is always snubbing me
20. Overly negative people

On NPR this morning I listened to a story about an Italian football fan that was accidentally shot (twice) and killed by a cop during a football riot. And this is the second such killing in Italy in the past couple of months. This story should have astonished me. After all, I would have cried out in shock if I heard the same story in the context of a Star Trek convention or a cat fancier’s competition. But I have learned that when it comes to football (of both the European and American variety) regular people turn into vampires thirsty for the sweet pain, and often blood, of their foes.

An ice pick in the eye is a more pleasant sight to my boyfriend than the sight of his beloved Colts failing. I have seen him gnash his teeth in terror, drop to the floor in spasms of misery, and claw the air in an agony of pain over what to me seems like more of an “well, that’s just too bad” situation. The season has barely started and his constitution is already shot. After the crushing blow he received last night my boyfriend could hardly sleep, had horrific nightmares, and woke up with a broken spirit. I predict that most of his workday will be spent writing tortured blog entries and commiserating online with other Colts fans, talking about what went wrong like a group of abused housewives comparing bruises. I wish I could stage some sort of intervention, wean him away from this destructive habit that can only end in being gunned down by an overeager cop (if history is any indicator), but I know I will be rebuffed.

The funny thing is that outside of the sports arena my boyfriend is as unemotional as a robot. He treats me like a crazy person when I yell at other drivers and once, finding me in tears over a particularly sad novel, actually suggested I should not read so much if it was going to upset me. But he thinks nothing of doing a jig of joy in a room full of people when the Colts have done well and even less of throwing remote controls or cats around when they do badly. I actually feel sorry for the Colts at time, thinking of how many household around the city must, at this very moment, be cursing their name. They won the Superbowl last year, which I hear is pretty good. Are they never to know peace? Will anyone every say, “Well, that was a rather bad game, but they did so well last year, I think I’ll layoff them for a while. Maybe send them a fruit basket shaped like a football.”

However, I will concede that the jig, especially when other sports fans join in, make it all worth it.

When I was 6 and mom was 23 we lived in a basement apartment in Fairbanks, Alaska. It was a decent apartment in a respectable neighborhood and, even though it did not have a single window, not even those little half-windows you often see in basements, it was killing my mom to pay for it. Every morning mom woke up at 7am, got me ready for school, and then went back to bed until 10. At 10 she got up again, showered, and worked from 11 until 3pm waiting tables at a nearby dinner. She then picked me up at school, helped me with my homework, made dinner, and did normal mother/daughter activities until my bedtime at 7pm. Mom then worked from 8pm until 3am cleaning the interior of airplanes after international flights. The neighbor would look in on me every hour for free.

So free time was in short supply and my mom forgot about Halloween until the afternoon before the hallowed event. I chatted on incessantly that afternoon about the Halloween parade I was going to be a part of. Sharply at noon our teacher was going to lead our whole class through the school, in and out of each classroom, where we would show off our costumes and collect candy. It was a sad little affair, but more than enough to please a six-year-old. Any break from the monotony of school was brilliant. When mom asked about my costume I brought out a paper cat mask I had made. It was cut from a book and hand colored, black then white and black again. It tied on with a piece of yarn, which was already tearing through the thin paper. I was too young to feel any shame about this pathetic little mask. I just wanted to be a cat. It was almost 7pm by this time and mom quietly put me to bed.

At lunch the next day my whole table buzzed about the Halloween parade. I ate very little, leaving room for buckets of candy. I was squishing tatter tots with my fork when mom appeared beside me, clutching a paper bag. The cafeteria monitors were alarmed until she explained who she was, and I was beside myself with happiness, proud that all my friends were seeing my mom, who with the inexperience of youth I considered the most beautiful woman in the world. Silently my mom drew out a wonderful cat mask, silky black with a jeweled nose and ears. I recognize the gems from a much coveted paste necklace my mother owned. Tight filling black leather gloves followed, a necessity when cleaning unheated planes at 1am in Alaska, with a jewel pasted on each finger to represent claws. A long black tail with a red bow at the base and a fancy collar, cut from mom’s fake satin blanket, completed my costume. I was ecstatic. I felt myself the most striking participant in the Halloween parade and refused to take my costume off, which resulted in a visit to the principal and a note to my mother, which, this once, she overlooked.

I spend a lot of time in the car, around three hours or so a day. To take my mind off traffic, homework, and the weekly semi that overturns or runs into a guardrail, I listen to books on tape. So far this semester I have listened to Jane Ayre, The Body Snatchers, The Shipping News, and Notes from a Small Island. In tribute to the high holiday of Halloween, I started a new audio book today: World War Z. Written by Max Brooks, author of the high concept The Zombie Survival Handbook and son of Mel Brooks, World War Z did not seem very promising. But pickings are slim among the audio books at the library and I’m willing to try almost anything. By the end of my fourth year at Purdue I’ll be reduced to listening to Bill Graham and Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus on my daily trips.

 By the time I hit the Purdue campus I was hooked. I sat in my car for 15 minutes until the interview I was listening to was over. That’s how the book is set up: a series of interviews from people who have survived World War Z or the Zombie War. With a cast of characters from all over the world, it’s easy to forget the story is about a fictional war with the undead. Testimonies from the CIA, foot soldiers, mercenaries, and political leaders could be about any war of our time. Then they start talking about the horror of fighting an enemy that not only shows no fear, but physically can’t experience fear, and your back in the world of Romero.

 But the wonderfully researched storyline (Brooks’ grasp of current world politics is wonderful) is not the only hook for this story. The audio book is presented as reader’s theater, with spot on accents, creepy atmospheric music, and subtle, anguished performances. It really stands out after weeks of listening to a high pitched man’s voice recite the tormented prose of Ann Proulx. It’s unlikely this book would be so fun and engrossing without the care that was put into the production and performances. According to the ever useful Wikipedia, WWZ won the 2007 award for best multi-voice performance. I have no idea how stiff the competition must be for this prestigious award, but WWZ deserves it. Sadly, the audio book only has select interviews from the book (about six hours worth), a bit ironic considering the interviewer’s (played by Max Brooks himself) complaint that the government cut interviews from his original report, which was the catalyst for this book.

 A film version is set to be released late next year, which I hope will mimic the documentary style of the novel and audio book. But until then I suggest snagging this great audio book to ease you though the tortures of early morning traffic and long, lonely road trips.

When I was twelve my parents let me watch Poltergeist. I don’t know if they were bad parents or just thought that the medium of prime time television would edit out all the scary parts, but it was a bad idea. As soon as that chair started moving across the kitchen floor I broke out in a cold sweat, and by the time the clown made his late appearance I was all but immobile with fear. I turned down ice cream since it would necessitate a trip to the kitchen, where rotten meat might be inching across the counter with some nefarious purpose in mind.

I carefully kept my fear to myself, knowing if I betrayed too much it would be years until I was allowed such horrors again. I sprinted to bed, the normal fears of monsters under the bed more alive than ever. My twelve inch black and white TV that I had fought so hard to possess was a black abyss at the foot of my bed. My army of stuffed animals leered with lurid grins, thoughts of possession on their minds. And from that evil throng one creature shined forth, emanating darkness and madness: a clown of quilting material and pantyhose, made with love by my great-grandmother, now an apparition of untold malevolence. I was too scared to do anything but pull the covers over my head and wait for sleep. Just like the boy in the move.

About thirty minutes later I woke to an incessant prodding at my arm. Unnatural light hit my still closed lids and a low hissing filled my ears. My eyes snapped open to discover my TV on, filled with static, and that carnivorous clown perched on top, arms threaded in the antennas, button eyes filled with hate. My terrified screams had barely started when my father snapped on the overhead light, laughing so hard he made snorting noises. My innocent mother flew down the hallway to me, glaring at my still mirthful father, perhaps rethinking her choices in life. My father apologized through his laughter and brought me ice cream to eat in bed. The clown was banished to another room and I slept the rest of the night with the hall light on. Less than a month later, after watching a Tales from the Dark Side in which a young girl’s teddy bear came alive and killed her whole family, I woke to find a teddy bear tucked in my arms.

One of the signs that children are more trouble than their worth is the willingness with which parents will leave them with teenage sitters. I started babysitting at 12, not from any desire to be around children, but because I wanted money to buy candy and comic books. Even by the standards of the eighties my allowance was miserable small, barely enough to keep me in soda and sweet tarts for the week. You can tell where I’m from by the use of “soda” instead of “coke” or “pop.” You gotta watch the details.

I was not mature for my age and probably had no business watching children. I remember hopping around pretending I was a rabbit in the long, unmowed grass of the field behind my house while my eight-year-old sister looked on in wonder, unsure how to take my bizarre and immature behavior. I never wanted to shave my legs or under my arms and I felt old and worn out on the day I started my period. I never coddled dolls or took joy  in changing fake diapers. Children were not interesting to me, but easy money was.

I mercilessly raided kitchens and paid more attention to the family pets than to the kids. If the family had cable and soda in the fridge I was in heaven. I read Stephen King to five-year-olds and let then watch anything they wanted for as long as they wanted. Once two kids locked themselves in their playroom and I had to have my father take the lock apart. We did not have it back together by the time their less than understanding parents got home, but they still called me the next time they needed a sitter.

When I was fourteen I watched a ten-year-old all day for three weeks. He liked to bring out his parent’s porn and pop it in the VCR when my back was turned. I was terrified of being blamed for this aberration and would beg him to take the tapes back to their hiding place. I would have quit, but this house had both a Nintendo and a puppy: everything my own home was missing. When I turned fifteen and acquired a boyfriend, babysitting jobs became the perfect place to make out. Just like Halloween or Prom Night, as soon as my innocent charge went off to bed my boyfriend and I would make out on the couch until our lips hurt.

So to sum up, the best part about children are the opportunities they present for money, free entertainment (in the form of cable and video games), sex, and food.

While reading a British literary magazine I noticed a sidebar of “famous first lines.” The famous first line was listed followed by a bit of witty banter. This is the entry for The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison:

“I am an invisible man.” No, he’s not a spook; he’s a flesh and blood man!

I can only hope the British have different slang than we do in American.

Along the same line, for her identity collage one of my students included a series of photos taken at one of those nifty photo booths present at all malls and tourist traps. This particular set of photos was taken during a zoo visit. It showed my student, a pretty white girl, with her African-American boyfriend. Blazoned along the top border of the photos are the words “Jungle Fun!” and various exotic looking plants.

Excerpts from student papers:

“I really enjoy taking the New York Pubic Transportation System.”

“Martin Luther King’s infamous speech will always be remembered.”

and more student car porn:

“I can play my favorite tune with my foot, while I’m held tight against her sweet interior. My baby has the power to turn me on, but I hold the key to what makes her wheels spin! ‘I’ve gotta V-12 sicker than a female; feels like intercourse buckling the seatbelt.’”

On the corner next to my house is a billboard that changes between three different ads. Often it gets stuck in a limbo between two ads. This week it was stuck between a Halloween store ad, which features a large grim reaper on the far left side, and St. Vincent’s Children’s Hospital. It looked so natural that a second look was needed to make sure St. Vincent was not indulging in a bit of sick humor.

I have appreciated the beauties of a sleek, shapely cape for as long as I can remember. I always wanted to wear one for Halloween, no matter what I was dressed as. Halloween pictures show such original costumes as cat with cape, rabbit with cape, hobo with cape. On my tenth Halloween I finally figured out that a cape complements no costume as much as that of a vampire, and my attire for the next six Halloweens was set (yes, I dressed up for Halloween until I was sixteen years old. I was having sex and pretending to be a vampire for free candy in the same year).

My first cape was black vinyl with a red vinyl interior. I wore it continuously in the weeks leading up to and following Halloween, until an ugly accident involving my sister and a pogo stick put an end to my fun. I would hide behind doors, couches, beds, anything in the house, just waiting for a victim to walk by. I would then jump out, hissing, and flap my cape. I wanted people to run in terror, but I must have been a bad hider because they were always expecting me. My family soon became disgusted with my behavior, which may be why my sister was not punished as she should have been for the reckless destruction of my valuable cape. I still remember the look of baffled horror on my mother’s face as she ran to the bus stop in her robe to keep me from boarding the bus in my beloved cape.

In daydreams I would often picture myself with a flowing cape, wreaking havoc on the pitiful population that had defied me in some way. For me, a cape was a symbol of evil, or at least that of a supremely disturbed and misunderstood person. My rabbit with a cape was an evil rabbit with a cape, capable of jumping on the back of smaller children with capeless costumes and biting at their necks. It makes sense for Dracula and Batman to have capes. They are mysterious and brooding; they have a lot of angst to hide behind a swirling pool of velvet blackness. But Superman? Captain Marvel? To them a cape is nothing but a rather silly fashion accessory. I’m sure everyone has considered how easy it would be for the Man of Steel to trip over his own crimson flag of justice or for a criminal to clothesline the Son of Krypton simply by grabbing his trailing mantle. I am reminded of a college friend who used to wear a cape (he called it a “cloak,” which sounds even geekier than cape) when we would play midnight hide-and-seek. You could always see his gray veil hanging down from whatever tree he had scurried up.

Adulthood, jobs, and higher education has not dimmed my love for the cape. In my opinion football would be more interesting if the players wore capes and spandex. I cherish pictures of caped fat cats flying through the photoshopped air. When asked what should replace the academic robes of old, I instantly picture myself in a striking green cape with matching mortar board teaching the young people about the value of a freshly laundered cape.

Anyone who knows me well is acquainted with my charming cat, Fiver. He is a sweet, personable little darling who loves to be petted, kissed, carried about, and all other activities you might imagine the perfect cat indulging in. He comes when he is called, plays with toy mice, sleeps on his back with his feet splayed out in the most adorable fashion, and keeps himself clean. All first time visitors to my home are captivated him. But cat perfection comes at a high price. When thwarted Fiver is a mighty foe indeed.

Due to the age and advanced girth of a couple of our cats, Eric and I have been forced to put the cats on a special, and may I say expensive, diet of prescription pet food. Our other cats realize that change is a part of life and partake of the pricy food with minimum fuss. But not Fiver. He is wagering a war of terror against me that I have no hope of winning.

After the offending food has been rejected, Fiver proceeds to follow me around the house, mewing in an imperious tone most people reserve for Nazi sympathizers. He then pushes all my books and papers onto the floor, looking me straight in the eyes the whole time. While I gather my scattered belongings Fiver sharpens his claws on whatever paper has flown free, effortlessly ducking the book I throw at him. He then starts dive-bombing my ankles, nipping my heels and running away before I can retaliate. If I even look toward his food dish he runs toward it hopefully, triggering the rest of the cats to do so as well, tripping whatever human might be in there path.

It only gets worse from here. He amps up these activities, throws in a bit of vomiting, and makes all work or even avoidance of work impossible. I can’t even go to the bathroom without him jiggling the doorknob, a la the raptors in Jurassic Park. Sometimes Fiver pretends to be sorry for causing me so much pain. He jumps in my lap and cuddles up sweetly, only to wrap his dagger claws in my hair or scrap his vampire fangs across my skin at his earliest convenience. During all this Eric blissfully watches football; all but unaware of the torments my soul is going through. He might throw in a “bad Fivy” every once in a while, but somehow this has no effect on the vengeful cat. The end is always the same: Fiver gets the food he wants and I am shamed that a cat has more willpower than I have.

To all of you who are doubtlessly rolling your eyes and thinking how you would never be some cat’s bitch, I dare you to withstand Fiver’s Old Testament like wrath. He is worse than any plague of locus or river of blood.